


The Night Before The Last

by MadameMorganLeFay



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMorganLeFay/pseuds/MadameMorganLeFay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't the last night before Justin leaves for New York. Brian knows this... but that isn't very comforting. He'd rather stay awake until the last day wishing that all good things didn't come to an end...  Canon Filler Scene leading up to end of 5x13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Before The Last

_Why the fuck am I awake?_

Who knows?

Brian slowly opens his eyes into the dark, feeling heavy and empty. At this time of night, he’s lost all pretence of bravado, shed his numerous layers to reveal the frightened, lonely soul hiding within. The real Brian Kinney is not a shark, as he would have most people believe, but a frail goldfish, trying to make his way in a turbulent ocean.  Fighting to avoid predators and stay alive. Knowing he’s a total stranger to everything that seems familiar on the outside- even his own bed.

Eventually, his eyes grow accustomed to the dark and he can think a little more clearly. Yes, he’s still alive, dammit… and up until a few moments ago, he dreamt about icing on cakes and driving through powdery snow in a brand new Corvette. Unsophisticated, but enjoyable. Now that his real surroundings have interrupted, he feels rather lonely… as though returning to consciousness was like landing on another planet.

_Where the hell am I?_

As if in response, he feels a tender hand resting against his chest and hears gentle breathing from soft lips that graze lightly against his arm. That’s confusing for a moment- but then he remembers where he is and what was bothering him… And his conclusion is anything but; a haunting question that he hasn’t enough time to consider. Yes: tomorrow night, Justin is flying off to New York… permanently. They won’t _ever_ be sleeping together again, let alone with Justin draped over his body.

Brian blinks as milky streaks of moonlight splash into his eyes and all over the bed. Without thinking, shifts onto his side to watch Justin’s peaceful sleep. _What is he dreaming about?_ God only knows. Reluctantly, Brian reaches out his hand which comes to rest on Justin’s stomach; the skin is impossibly soft. It rises and falls like a wave playing against a sandy beach. He traces his fingers downwards, and Justin wriggles closer to him with a small sigh.

Something clenches inside his stomach. Suddenly, he can’t bear the view anymore; it’s too intimate- worse still, it won’t last. Frightened, Brian withdraws his touch, remembering himself once again. They don’t normally sleep so close together, simply because he doesn’t want to. But tonight is different; their natural closeness a silent reminder of what little time they have left.

Justin might as well be a hologram before him. Gazing at this soft, supple body stretched besides him lulls him into a false sense of security- but this is a painful lie to tell. So why is the sight so… magnetic, why must he gather up enough courage to tear himself away? God only knows, he replies with a sour smile.

_I need a cigarette._

With a sigh, he slips out of bed and retrieves the pack with idle fingers. He doesn’t concentrate on the task because his eyes keep wandering back to Justin’s sleeping form. The familiar stirrings of desire unsettle him as he studies the only person who has wormed their way as close to his heart as is humanly possible…So he bites his lips and turns away, shuddering.

Fuck.

Even five years after Justin wandered into his life wearing a fucking _plaid shirt_ for Christ’s sakes, Brian still feels as though he’d been taken completely by surprise. _Me… and him? What the hell happened?_ It’s like fucking _Gulliver’s Travels_ ; he wakes to find himself tied to the ground, helpless and unable to move with no recollection of how he got there. And unlike all the good kidnap stories he read as a kid, no one has come to free him yet.

What the fuck is he going to do after Justin packs up and leaves?

It’s not worth thinking about just yet, so he turns away from the bed and fumbles around for a lighter.

** ~ooooOOOOoooo~ **

_“I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you…”_

He sits naked by the window, watching the harsh orange glow of his cigarette stand in contrast to the rich midnight black from outside. Pittsburgh never sleeps; the street below is bathed in a diverse shower of cold oranges and yellows, as though the sun has spilled onto the sidewalks below. He watches the occasional passer-by stroll past- some alone, some hand in hand. His weary eyes follow the infrequent train of traffic crawling past like furtive snails, hardly making a sound. One by one, they disappear into the distance, swallowed by the darkness. He peers into the windows of neighbouring high-rise apartments, even though most are shut, and wonders what happens behind closed windows and doors in the lives of mundane people…

Of course, nobody answers.

Maybe someone out there is watching _him_? Despite his contempt for the spiritual, supernatural and religious, he cannot explain why the thought is oddly comforting. Is it his long-held desire to have someone fully, unreservedly understand him- for his friends- and even Justin can be unsympathetic. He almost needs to cling to the idea that a secret observer knows of his turmoil. After all, anything is possible at this time of night.

And what would this silent observer think?

Hopefully, that he’s misunderstood, that he isn’t only a sinner… That his cold exterior is nothing but an act, a barrier against pain and rejection… and everything in between. That inside, he’s a wreck; full of self-loathing and insecurity, that he has no confidence in himself and clings to promiscuous sex, arrogance and manipulation in self-defence. Is that a crime?

He hears no answer but the curling plumes of smoke wafting out of his parted lips.

Either way, Justin is still leaving him again. For his own good, because even Brian Kinney drives Brian Kinney stark raving mad. But it all feels like an exercise in missed opportunities- as though his time with Justin was too short. Going back, would he have done anything differently? Hugged Justin tighter, kissed him harder, made love to him instead of simply fucking him? Not argued as much, or pushed him off a cliff when he couldn’t handle the idea of them being… together?

But even as he reinvents his troubled past, his lips twist upwards half-heartedly.

Who is he kidding?

He was never perfect- but he’d done better than alright. Sure, he’d always given Justin less than what he wanted, yet never without subtext, never without meaningful gestures. He’d never say The Words, because there were other ways of showing that; not complaining _too much_ when Justin wanted to watch _Titanic_ for the millionth time, or when he replayed that fucking awful Moby CD or when he crunched French Fries in his mouth so loudly they made his ears ache. He cleared some of his living space to let Justin sketch and paint, bought an overpriced printer for his graphic work, cleared space in his wardrobe, and drove him around the city so many times he was practically a fucking chauffeur.

Yes, he was an asshole much of the time, but he knew that Justin is no saint. Appearances can be deceptive. Anyway, neither one of them had ever been in a… relationship before, yet… He can’t help feeling that they could have done much worse. This _“thing”_ they’d been living for… five years (was it that long?) _had_ worked, in an illogical, undefined way. Somehow, they’d managed to find a compromise between Justin wanting recognition and him wanting anarchy, each sacrificing one thing to please the other whilst he pretended they were working out a deal. No, he had been completely willing, eager… almost _desperate_ to prove he wanted Justin to stay.

_It fucking worked._

For longer than expected.

Was it that undeniable chemistry, that resistant bond that did the trick? Brian has no idea, because in reality, they still have very few things in common. In fact, they might have hated living under the same roof; he always complains, never cooks, rarely does the groceries because it cramps his style, still sees no reason to make an effort on special celebrations, still despises Justin’s sense of fashion ( _if it can be called that)_ , yawns during Justin’s favourite movies and hogs the bathroom.  

_Well, that’s just me…_

Even now, neither one makes much effort to agree on anything. And strangely, that’s what made Justin so attractive to him in the first place: the law of opposites.

What the fuck is he going to do without Justin? It’s… that _force_ again, controlling him. Hadn’t his friends told him as much? And even then, they would never guess just how deeply these confusing, overwhelming… intoxicating feelings run within him. The stuff of dreamy legends and timeless movies, the cliché’s he finds so nauseating.

_“What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way,_

_What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you…”_

** ~ooooOOOOoooo~ **

_“What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way,_

_What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you…”_

Making love… nothing compares to the experience. No other sensation, no other intimacy holds a candle to being tangled up with Justin, wrestling against the sheets. He finally calls it for what it is, instead of just a blind fuck. He no longer simply aims for a release, but connects with Justin so deeply it alarms him. His emotions go haywire; with each shuddering orgasm… he loses himself a little more. Such a strong, intense chemistry defies description; no, he and Justin are nothing less than the ends of a short-circuited wire that burst into showers of sparks when ignited. With each passionate episode in bed, it isn’t about satisfying an itch, but expressing his commitment- not to his lust… but to _them_.

After all, he can no longer deny that tricks won’t satisfy him the way Justin does… unless they are in a threesome. He can no longer deny that Justin’s approval of his sexual partners is almost more important than fucking the shit out of whomsoever he chooses. They are even more irrelevant than before he fell into this honey trap. God, he can’t even remember what they look like anymore! Before, he’d brag to Michael about every fuck he’d ever had; how the CEO last Friday night was tight and smelt of cologne, how the store clerk’s lips worked wonders on his cock, how the bank manager fucked like a thirsty bastard and liked taking it against his desk…

Now he knows nothing; a hand unzips his flies, a hot mouth does its work and the body disappears.

And he comes back to Justin.

Always.

** ~ooooOOOOoooo~ **

_What would it have been like if…?_

Life is so crafty that it takes the most unlikely of characters and casts them into the most predictable of situations. How on earth did he feel so exhilarated when Justin agreed to marry him? Was he high? Or was he finally coming to accept that love was fucking strange? Because in a few weeks’ time, he would have had a husband, for Christ’s sakes! And he was no longer horrified by the idea. Why?

His madness knew no bounds; nothing short of robbing a bank was out of the question, as long as Justin was happy. Horrific credit card bills could come later. In the blissful days after their engagement, it was all about finding the most grandiose venue, ordering the most expensive items out of every single wedding catalogue and sending Emmett off to South China to buy an endangered flower he’d never heard of. Because if Justin wanted it… Justin would get it.

But right now no ring presses into his skin.

Maybe for the best. He knew, deep down that he was twisting himself out of shape that he was too eager to morph into a mould which would _never_ fit him perfectly- no matter how hard he tried. Sure, he wouldn’t go back to being the reckless shit of before, but neither could he lie to himself with a piece of gold and a gigantic house in fucking West Virginia. And yet… if it made Justin happy…

The idea was too tempting- it made him forget that he should have asked what Justin wanted rather than simply assuming. Then again, he can’t say whether he would have done anything differently since the bombing… even knowing in retrospect that Justin would snap. Staying indoors instead of clubbing, turning down his final trick, suggesting they cuddle… Then the illusion was smashed; he didn’t want someone who’d give up a chance at success to be married, and he could see in Justin’s eyes how much he _wanted_ New York, regardless of what he said.

Does it still hurt? A little, but as he settled down the night they decided not to get married, he couldn’t help the tiniest twinge of relief that melted into insistence that Justin start his life elsewhere. New York was an opening, and Pittsburgh a stagnant city destined for nowhere. He’d worked that out the hard way- had even experienced the pain of being given a chance out, only to end up stuck again where he’d been surviving since childhood. Yes, Justin simply _had_ to go, and marriage was off the table.

Don’t plenty of couples put off their engagement?

Still, do “plenty of couples” have what he has with Justin? He can’t imagine it. No one else in a world of billions could ever fit the puzzle, could ever solve the code that was Brian Kinney.

_“And I don’t want to fall in love,_

_No I don’t want to fall in love… with you.”_

**~~~~**

** ~ooooOOOOoooo~ **

He wakes from his stupor…

Justin steps out of the gloom into the moonlight, fixing him with a questioning gaze. He opens his mouth as though to offer some explanation, but gives up, shaking his head. How can he explain himself, how can he possibly articulate his isolation into words? No, it is better he does not speak, that he continues to stare aimlessly into the night hoping for a resolution that will never come.

He feels those skilful, eager hands stroking his neck as though to soothe his fears away. For the short while that he forgets his impending loss, he manages to slip back into oblivion. His eyes flutter, then shut, lost in the tender, steady rhythm.

“Come back to bed,” Justin whispers, pressing light kisses to his shoulder. “I don’t like sleeping without you…”

These heart-wrenching words cut into him like a knife. It’s so tempting to yield to Justin’s request there and then- just as he’s always done. Except he can’t; the bed- _their_ bed- reminds him of the end, and there’s no going back. So instead, he reaches out and pulls Justin closer, leaning in for a kiss that inevitably melts into something deeper. But isn’t that always the case? Only later, he pulls back to breathe- but not for long. Pulling Justin back into his arms, his lips begin to roam downwards, to caress Justin’s neck, to nuzzle his shoulder, to scrape against his toughened nipples…

Justin smells like soap and cheap deodorant- the kind that comes with misleading adverts, but is really nothing but a bunch of harsh chemicals in a can. He remembers constantly mocking Justin’s reliance on what he called “drugstore knock-offs”, but now, the scent breathes life into his blood.

With Justin now straddling him, he slips one hand down to start stroking both their hardened members, and his lover wriggles onto his lap, moaning. The pace of his hands increases, exploring all those familiar sensitive spots that drive them both to distraction every time..

“Br- Brian…” Justin whimpers, buying his face into his neck. “Oh… Oh, Brian…”

And then, his impending release isn’t enough. He wants more.

All too soon, he’s thrusting inside Justin as though his life depends on it. Time has no meaning and numbs his senses to the point that his only clear thought is of transportation… of transformation. He’s inside a beautiful, surreal dimension where the air is sweet and there is no need to think of tomorrow. No walls constrain his pleasure, no disturbing thoughts advise caution. He’s free, wildly free on a cloud of his own. The frenetic pace he sets alarms him; he can’t afford to succumb too soon, not when he wants Justin to _feel_ his ecstasy at the same time. Still, his hands continue to journey around his whimpering lover, his ministrations encouraged, rewarded by wet kisses.

Finally… he and Justin cry out into the darkness. Out of nowhere, beautiful energy floods his body; he spins and floats in the sky, shoots into space... Eventually, his breathing returns to normal, his desperate arms slacken and he sighs- perhaps without even realizing it. Quietly accepting his accomplishment, his wandering gaze drifts back to the window for comfort.

“That was…” Justin trails off, searching for the right word. “That was… I can’t describe it.”

“Then don’t.” He sounds a little harsher than he intended, but does not apologise. Shit, he could have ruined the post-coital glow they usually shared but somehow Justin did not lose his temper as expected.

“Are you alright? You’re not, are you? But you really have no need to be upset, because—Well, you should try not to be… You’re Brian Kinney, and you don’t give a shit about these kinds of things…”

He swallows back a lump in his throat at the deep tenderness in Justin’s voice, the unreserved understanding, the desire to help. It isn’t always like this. Flinching, he leans back towards the window for… comfort- anything to avoid being… _loved_ in this way. The force of it frightens him into silence. Thankfully, Justin does not make any reply for a few minutes; it’s just as well because he can barely move his body in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

“You should go back to bed,” he whispers finally, stroking Justin’s hair. It’s thick and strong, yet softer than a feather; he’ll never forget this sensation.

“Take your own advice! Your skin is so cold, Brian; you shouldn’t sit at the window… Remember what happens when you get the flu? You’re a cranky little shit!”

There is a hint of amusement in Justin’s voice that he adores… and he hates. “Or maybe _you’re_ just the irritating one- have you considered that?”

He lets Justin kiss a burning trail down his neck. “This argument could go on for a long time… And we don’t have that long… Do we?”

“I guess not.”

“So… promise tomorrow we won’t fight over shampoo, the correct strength of coffee, whose music sucks more and why I’m not allowed to watch the Jerry Springer show?”

He can’t help it; a small chuckle escapes his lips. “We argued about all that?”

“There’s more; why my hands are too quote “dirty” to touch your Armani suits, why _Love Actually_ is for hysterical heterosexual women, and makes you want to shoot yourself in the head, why doing the groceries is beneath you… Those were the days, huh?”

“Yeah… I guess so.” He isn’t sure of anything anymore. “Maybe we weren’t supposed to make it as… us.”

“Maybe not. But I’m glad we did.”

He pauses, allowing the comment time to sink in. The declaration that Justin was pleased they’d pulled through a trillion different obstacles to cling to this non-conventional arrangement of theirs that had set him back several thousand dollars and enough condoms to start a factory.

Were they fucking _mad_?

Kissing pornographically… everywhere; the Diner, the road, parks, clubs, in front of their friends, inside a Library, inside cars and outside supermarkets…  Getting shit-faced at every club in Pittsburgh, constantly alternating between good-natured banter and spirited arguments about everything under the sun… Fighting, breaking up, making up only to start the whole process over.

Touching.

Sharing looks, smiles, tongues.

Laughing- always _laughing_ at stupid shit, at obvious innuendo, at witty references. Laughing at things no one else found funny, laughing for the sake of it, laughing when they did something utterly stupid or when they said something unusually wise.

 _Fucking_. Every night, every morning, and all the hours in between. Fucking in beds, over tables, against fridges, in the shower, on the floor, in cars, over couches and under the unblinking neon glare of Babylon. Lying down, standing, bent over… but always fucking. They were prolific, shameless. Sinful and extravagant, always generous... Sometimes selfish, but gentle. Incurably greedy and wild. And they never stopped.

Loving.

 _Always_ loving each other and him fucking denying it with every last breath.

The reluctant yet undeniable Brian and Justin Show- doomed to fail and yet slated to survive. Yes, despite his private misgivings, that was what their relationship had become; one extraordinary spectacle, the kind people only experienced once in a lifetime. The Brian and Justin Show… that made him leave Michael behind without regret...  Maybe even Lindsay.

And despite the pain, bullshit, heartbreak and tears…

“Yeah… I’m glad too.”

And as though satisfied, Justin presses a deep kiss to his lips, and climbs off him to return to bed.

Alone.

** ~ooooOOOOoooo~ **

A couple of hours later, a new day rises from the dying hues of the night. He’s painfully quiet, watching helplessly as Justin moves around The Loft, preparing to walk out of his life for good. With each drawer that is emptied, each possession that is removed, each bag that is zipped up, a light dies inside him. Still, he says nothing because God knows he’ll never dare to suggest that any of this might be... hurting him. With one word, he could keep Justin for another day. That’s how much power he has still- but they’d both be living a lie.

He’s barely spoken six words to Justin since sunrise because… what is there to say? Drive safely? New York is expensive? Find a job? All of these are mere distractions from the looming end approaching upon their sunset horizon. He’ll find an awkward way to articulate himself later… Or something. It won’t be easy- even less so when Justin pauses to smile at him every so often, leans up to kiss him, gazes at him with something akin to regret. He feels vomit rising in his throat at the unspoken words between them, pain almost doubles him over…

And still, he says nothing.

This is _it_.

Sure, he could spend an eternity filling himself with optimism for a chance future encounter… No, he’d never even try. The glaring truth is a better alternative to further misery when his dreams remain unrealized… just like always. He knows that he is doing the right thing- but the cost doesn’t bear thinking about. The days when they walked together as one, where they lived and breathed only for each other are over. The bubble has burst- just like that. Because life is classically cruel like that.

And when his sun flies off to New York, he’ll end up stranded in the dark.

** ~ooooOOOOoooo~ **


End file.
